Olive Branch
by NEXTLOVER
Summary: Asami & Akihito are on the same page in different books.


_**O**__**live Branch**_

_**- **__**Asami & Akihito are on the same page in different books**__** -**_

_*Characters are properties of the creator*_

He turns over, facing away. Another night, another day, another go, any other way. Same ol' same ol' for Asami and Akihito. But then the former wouldn't have it any other way, would he? The sulking form told him so. He stifles the urge to throttle the skinny neck.

"What's wrong with you now?"

And boy, did the boy look wronged. As if any other wrong in the world is minimal, small, compared to _his_ wrong. Asami isn't piqued, but his interests dictate he attempt to correct his wrong (it's always him doing the wronging now).

"You asshole."

The lack of emotion catches him by surprise. Many moons ago (eight moons ago?), the words were laced with jest, a taint of affection, the tease of a challenge. But things (people?) change, as they say.

It always started post-coital. One would offer a branch, the other breaks it in half, no matter the size. The branches were easily broken, discarded these days. These offerings used to be a rarity.

The tantrum is temporary. The hackles go down.

"You ever get tired of this?"

Asami decides to play along; he'll stroke the little hairs. He has a feeling that humoring the brat would permanently leave the tree devoid of branches. His hands are itching to grab something. A cigarette. His head. A neck. He closes his eyes instead.

"Get tired of what?"

"This... thing. This 'us.' This... I don't know."

My my, the words were forthcoming, but they never needed them. Not for communication, and certainly not for understanding. Words were only used for misunderstandings, to gain the upper hand in a silent competition where the olive branch was the trophy. It held power.

"I feel like we should be on another level. Like we should be doing something... different. Y'know?"

The words were forthcoming, indeed. And Asami isn't liking the hidden meanings. Time to use the olive branch (he won this round. Per usual).

Paste on the plastic smirk, cock an eyebrow (if only he could cock his cock, but alas), and derail away.

"Just how 'different' do you want it, Takaba? I take suggestions..." The seductive tone suggested its own suggestion. He forces his fingers to touch the brat (it should've brought him enjoyment. He wonders why).

"No." The hand isn't slapped away (he wonders some more).

"I'm sick and tired of playing and fucking around. I'm tired of _this_. It's like... all we ever do is fight and fuck. Fight and fuck. We fight then we fuck like our fucking is the peak of... whatever the hell it is we're doing."

Subdued, so very unlike the spunky brat Asami is used to. But a brat wouldn't be having these thoughts. A brat would be unwilling to think ahead, to plan, to even broach a subject head on so taboo, so... expected.

The brat is growing up and Asami is being left behind.

If truth be told (and words were never used for honesty, either), Asami is scared shitless (maybe not scared. More like apprehensive. And he'll be the first to admit he's full of shit). He's comfortable with the way things are. He likes it, as is, this unspoken mutual understanding of never voicing unnecessary truths. Truths are subjective. One could believe a truth while others may consider it a lie.

Truths are just there to be used for future betrayals.

But Asami's no fool (of course not!); he was expecting this. And what a kick to his balls it is. It's too much to admit that the brat bringing it up alarms him. It's too much to admit that the brat, _his _brat (emphasis on _his_), has a point, and a good one.

He's still talking. For once, he wants the brat to shut up. He focuses on the spoken lies rather than the hidden truths. Best to heal his injured balls and whatnot.

"Can't we have other peaks?"

He's somehow comforted by the familiar whine in the brat's voice.

"I mean... where the hell are we headed?"

Asami had always marveled at the childlike quality of that voice. It isn't so much the tone or timbre, but the irregular cadence.

"I don't even know what we've got right now..."

A rhythm able to run the gamut from a smooth monotone to an excitable crescendo in a split second.

"What are we supposed to be?"

And that crescendo is missing, taking on the world-weary tone of... an adult? Someone who wants to be heard? Someone who's ready to—

He can't bring himself to think it.

Asami knows; he knows the brat is serious. He knows he (they?) can't sweep it under the rug anymore. He (they?) opted to ignore the writing on the wall and missed the cracks completely.

"I kinda—I mean, sometimes, I just wanna—"

The brat is giving him the reigns (weren't they always his?); the onus is on him (hadn't it always been?). So how (huh?what?where?) should he respond (the brat is waiting; he wants acknowledgment)?

"Fuck."

It comes out unconsciously. The brat is startled; he can tell. He always can. Every fibre of his body is in tuned to the brat. Every nuance, every breath, every movement, all for the brat (a maestro of detecting shifts in mood).

After all, it's always him doing the chasing (a bitch? Really, Asami?).

"Asami?"

Asami answers in the best way he knows how (he's got an impressive array of know hows). Cigarette. Exhale. Hide behind the smokescreen and feign indifference. Slowly, methodically, get out of bed. Show that the balance of power is just there and just right, as it's always been (has it?). He needs this for self-preservation.

"Asami."

Does the brat have it in him? To up and leave. He's not one to think of possibilities, least of all the uncontrollable kinds, but here it is, confronting him point blank. They've reached a crux; they both know it. He can pretend no longer (a pretentious bitch? Really, Asami?).

"Listen."

He is. He can't help it. He had deciphered and turned and twisted the words every which way to find some sort of lie. Asami's no fool (of course not!), but he's been fooling himself (a pretentious, foolish bitch? Really, Asami?).

Walk (run) away, bare, naked (he'd bare his naked heart to the brat if he could, but a man's a man). Open the door—

"Asami. I'm serious. I meant every—"

—and close it on the half-finished lie (truth?) he knows so well (it's been playing in his mind like he's been playing himself).

"I know." Asami knows the brat didn't hear. It's safe, it's all right, to be honest when he's alone (he's tired, too. He knows, he won't deny. He's tired, too).

Well. They'll have another night, another day, another etc. etc. to sort this out, to get it right, to fuck it up and mend it broke.

He'll wile the hours away hitting his balls with the olive branch in the meanwhile.


End file.
